"Protect—now, immediately!"
Ethan's voice cracked across the stone. He hadn't expected Phanpy to pack such a nasty genetic pick—Retaliate off an Iron Tail opener was already spiking damage; add type advantage and a point-blank crash… if Protect failed, Houndour was done.
The arena went silent. People unconsciously slowed their breathing—some even held it—like noise might jinx the roll.
Third Protect in one bout. Odds were ugly.
At the sideline, Lana clenched her fists, teeth in her lip till it bled. Please, Houndour. Don't fall now.
Phanpy barreled in. Houndour drew a long breath, steadied, felt the flow of neutral energy in his body. A gust hit his face. His eyes sharpened; muscles coiled. He stamped both forepaws.
This was the hinge.
Up on the second floor, the yellow-furred fox—Abra—slit one eye open for a millisecond, then closed it again with the faintest smile.
Outcome decided.
Under a hundred held breaths, a glassy pane snapped into being—threaded into the tiny gap between Phanpy and Houndour—just in time to catch the onrushing Retaliate.
Protect #3: success.
Krrank!
Like a wineglass cracking, the barrier shattered—celebration died in throats as hearts leapt again.
Broken?
Right—"absolute" protection never was absolute. It can blunt same-tier hits—even some above it—but there's a ceiling. (Think: only ~¾ of a Z-Move's payload gets stopped.) This Retaliate, stacked off an Iron Tail trigger and type bonus, punched past the pane's limit.
The pane burst; both mon went tumbling four, five meters before skidding out.
Nobody breathed. They watched for a twitch.
Houndour popped up first—shook off the stars, more rattled than hurt.
Phanpy struggled longer. That rebound through the failing pane hit like a truck; without its thick hide and ground-shock body, it wouldn't have stood at all.
"So the Retaliate's payload dumped into the shield before it broke?" Ethan read the field. "Houndour took the body blow, not the damage."
"Hidden Power—Grass!"
Verdant energy pooled in Houndour's jaws—fist-sized—and lanced out. It struck the staggering Phanpy square.
Green sigils crawled over blue skin; Phanpy's eyes went wide—natural enemy. The lines cinched and twisted like roots threading soil.
Phanpy toppled, rolling and writhing. After ten agonizing seconds, the glow receded; Phanpy lay limp.
Round Three to Houndour.
On the rail, Lana wiped her lip and managed a grin. "One more. Ethan, Houndour—finish it."
Down on the floor, the proctor blinked, momentarily forgetting to throw the last ball.
Iron Tail. Protect. Toxic. Hidden Power (Grass). What lineage was this? Why hadn't the brief said, "Target the walking toolkit"?
Upper Deck
Madam Juno cracked an eyelid at the Hidden Power, then let it fall. She wasn't courting Ethan as a pupil—why fuss?
Lydia Vale watched, cool and silent.
The talkers started talking.
"Did I misjudge him? He has a mentor?" Director Gavin Zephyr frowned. A Houndour doesn't just stumble into Toxic/Protect/Iron Tail/Hidden Power at this stage.
Hugh Yarrow shook his head. Zane Yates thought, then: "Fire specialists don't usually lean Toxic. We're a Will-O-Wisp/Inferno crowd."
All three looked to Lincoln Granitehall. He spread his hands. "I dug some. His circle's clean. He says Houndour was a gift from an unrelated third party. If there's a teacher, it could be the gifter."
Gavin nodded. "We'll verify later. For now—watch the exam. As long as he's not some plant from a reactionary outfit, we sleep fine."
Lincoln's mouth twitched. Number one trainer high in the province and still calling it "small." What next—rename it Kassel and go dragon-hunting?
Gavin refocused on the floor. "All right—chips on the table."
Zane Yates—Fire lead—leaned forward. "My Fire Research Team wants him. Personal reason: I've got a manuscript—needs the right heir. Him. Even if he whiffs the last fight, I'll burn my unused Starter allocation to secure his pick. When I submit, I'll want your votes—as colleagues and future faculty."
Hugh Yarrow—Dark lead—bristled. "What you can put up, so can we. I can guarantee him teaching tapes for Snarl and Hyper Voice, and if he loses the last round, we still have department quota to secure his Starter. If the Old Master likes him, I'll recommend him for apprenticeship—no promises, but the old man's actively eyeing an heir."
Gavin lifted both palms. "Easy. The major's his choice. We guide; we don't grab. Make your offers—lowest offer bows out. Let's keep this collegial."
Lincoln Granitehall, silent a beat longer than the rest, was doing his own math. Less than thirty days since they'd parted, and Ethan had Houndour running four high-tier lines like they were native. Clean execution, no hitch. His stock on Ethan's potential ticked up—hard.